


a second grave

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Hotel Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Skye is great at emotional support, Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension, coulson feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye and Coulson spend three days in DC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a second grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamsterfactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterfactor/gifts).



They get three days on the city to do this.

"I've never been to Washington."

"You haven't?"

She shakes her head. "Never traveled in First Class, either."

"Well, the DOD pays so... enjoy."

"I'm planning on it," she tells him, swaying a bit on her seat and giving Coulson a wicked look that almost makes him smile despite all his protestations that he is going to focus on the job. That he is not going to have fun.

She's wearing a blue flannel shirt and jeans. It's been a while. He's not used to seeing Skye out of her mission gear anymore. He's used to seeing her coming back from the field, with sweat and dust on her face, fierce and tired. The smiling, excited, awkward Skye sitting in First Class for the first time ever, and by his side, is just another version of the same song, but Coulson admits he has missed hearing it. 

 

**[x]**

They roll into town late, exhausted by the journey from the airport, the traffic.

Skye looks at the high ceiling in reception, impressed. If they are going to do this – grovel through Washington offices for funding and support – they might as well do it in style. Coulson finds the whole thing comfortable because he knows how to; arranging the details of the journey, booking the hotel, enjoying the luxuries. It didn't come easy to him at first, but it's been decades of this sort of environment. He can tell Skye still feels at odds and wonders if he has been selfish, finding such a expensive place. He wanted her to be comfortable.

"Have you noticed our rooms have connecting doors?" Skye says, peeking from the other side while he was putting down his bags. She seems excited, maybe _over_ excited.

He lets out a mental groan.

"I think you're already having too much fun on this trip," he comments.

"Have you seen our schedule? I don't think anyone on this town ever has fun." She fake-pouts a bit, because it's true, neither of them are looking forward to a busy day tomorrow. "You have a minibar? I don't have a minibar!"

"Well, maybe I don't trust you with the corporate credit card," he teases. He has no idea why she doesn't have a minibar, their rooms were supposed to be identical, it must be some kind of mistake.

Her face falls a bit, disappointed.

 

**[x]**

"Why did we have to come here ourselves?" he asks out loud, after what have been possibly the most boring four hours of his life. 

He is massaging his temples, eyes closed, he can't remember the last time he had a stress headache this pathetic.

Skye looks over at him. "Because the other option was to send May and Trip."

He cringes.

Point taken. May would have been pretty inefficient, he knows his friend's limitations. But Trip? Trip would have been even worse. He's just too charming, people would get suspicious. He remembers why they are here; basically he and Skye are the only ones with enough people skills to have a chance at this. They might look like an odd team from the outside, yes, but so far they have closed three contracts so odd or not they make a good team.

 

**[x]**

After lunch – a break for some horrible sandwhich courtesy of some PR firm they are definitely not going to hire – the meetings get shorter and their luck runs out on the "yes" answers and Coulson is just relieved when they are finally done for the day.

Or almost.

"I have an appointment at the Stark Industries branch here."

Skye is quick to correct him: "You mean you have a coffee date with Maria Hill."

"Pretty much."

"Try not to start a fight with her."

Skye understands it's something private, whatever he has to discuss with Hill, and she doesn't hesitate to get out of the way. He worries about leaving her alone like this.

"You're welcome to come if you–"

"It's okay," she says, reading his face perfectly. "I've stuff to do, too. Some recruitment visits, actually."

"More hackers?"

"No, don't worry. It's the girl I told you about."

He remembers their conversation on the plane, they had left it pretty open.

"The one with the criminal record," he says.

Skye gives him a dissapointed head-tilt. " _Coulson_. You should know by now that sometimes girls get into fights and that doesn't mean they are criminals. Trust me on this one."

"Okay," he nods. Then he gets curious, a bit teasingly, a bit maybe on the edge of something else. "Did _you_ get in many fights?"

"No. I was more the type to _run away_."

He can imagine she was, for better or worse.

 

**[x]**

He has to go to the door between their rooms because it's locked when Skye knocks.

"I was getting ready to got to bed," he explains.

He saw her briefly when she came back from her interview, but they haven't talked.

"Can I raid your minibar?"

"Skye?"

He sees her face, even though she is trying to hide it from him, turning away. He nods and lets her walk past him, brushing his arm awkwardly.

"Don't you have bourbon?" she asks, when she sees it's mostly scotch in there.

"No, I don't think so."

She takes a tiny bottle of gin and gestures towards the big, comfortable chair. "Mind?"

He doesn't. He goes back to sitting on the bed, feeling like the room has shrunk to half its size just through Skye's presence. That's not fair, though. That's on him, not her. He slides towards the headboard and tries to relax. The tv has the volume down and is on one of those 24 hour news stations.

"Are you watching this?" Skye asks.

"No. What do you want? You know it's all included."

He tries not to sound too patronizing. He is half scared that she wants to watch a movie with him and he tries to examine the reasons why that would worry him. No, not worry him, scare him.

"News are fine," Skye says and takes a little sip from the gin.

He waits for her to speak, to want to speak, to explain what she's doing. It's not like Skye to just come here uninvited, push some boundaries. She has a reason.

"What happened this afternoon?" he asks her, eventually, because he knows there's also some mercy in not letting her start first.

He watches her shoulders tense for a moment.

"The interview was a bust," she says. "Nothing came of it. I'm sorry, sir."

"It's not your fault."

She's still too new to this to realize that's how most meetings go, when you are on the recruiment side. Coulson never took up that job in the old SHIELD regime; he watched others – he watched people like Fury, actually – but he wasn't usuallu the one to offer the job. Except when he met someone interesting on a mission and just had to ask. Like with Skye. That didn't happen too often.

It doesn't happen too often. It's not a glamourous job. Skye will have to learn that days like this are the norm rather than the exception.

It's not that he is cynical and jaded (he was for a time, then he wasn't), it's that he knows these things take time. And Skye is patient but he knows she was really looking forward to this one. She's still picking favorites.

"Can I just stay here in your room for a bit?" she asks, looking at him sideways.

"Of course."

 

**[x]**

He's not sure how to wake her up without it being disturbing or inappropriate, or even probably creepy. It's only 12.15 so it could be worse. It could be the middle of the night.

Her sleeping face doesn't look any more reassuring than it had an hour ago, when she had seemed troubled by the events of the day. She doesn't look any more relaxed (or like she feels any safer in her sleep). Coulson wonders if she always looks like this when she sleeps. It's a strange, dangerous question. He only ever saw her when she was unconscious in the medipod. This is not like that. The news hum softly in the background and he has the blinds pulled and behind her there's the image of the whole city and its lights.

He touches her shoulder lightly.

"What?" The word comes out low and slurred and she turns on her side, sighing, and Coulson pulls back a bit, it's not the kind of noise he should be listening a subordinate make.

"Skye, wake up," he tries again.

This time she opens her eyes, readjusts herself on the couch (legs up as always, pressed against her chest, a Skye staple – he reflects with fondness) and wakes up.

 

**[x]**

It wears off quickly, the excitement of being out of dangerous missions and somewhere new. It wears off quickly for Skye. He can tell she still needs the break – they both do – but she's beginning to get bored. Perhaps life in the Playground, life in the first line of fire, besides the Director of SHIELD, has made her restless. Or perhaps she was always restless.

But the second day they have some free time. A lot of free time, actually.

"I need to be somewhere," he tells her, unsure if he should ask Skye to come with her. It's not like it's important, not exactly. He feels weird about it. But it is important to him and for some reason he _wants_ Skye to come, he wants to share it.

"And you want me to come?" she says, guessing. "Where?"

"The cemetery."

 

**[x]**

He doesn't know why he buys flowers, if he is honest. It's not necessary. He feels a bit foolish now that he's here, with a bunch of yellow flowers in his hand. He hesitates but finally he places them in front of the grave, wondering if they are even the right kind of flowers, if this is disrespectful in some way, if – 

"But Director Fury is alive," Skye argues, without much conviction, like she fears Fury might have get killed in the interim and no one has told her.

"Yes, but we can still pay our respects."

She tilts her head at it, studying the grave. The place is neat and he wonders who keeps it clean. The graveyard's employees probably. He very much doubts someone else has come to pay their respects. Everyone who would care probably already know it's a fake. Fury lost his family at a young age – Coulson remembers when he told him that, in the years in the Academy. He had felt immediately drawn to the man.

"Is this a passing of the torch, Director-kind of thing?" Skye asks.

"It probably is," he admits.

"It's a good quote," she points out.

Coulson wonders if she knows the epitaph is kind of ironic. It doesn't matter, it's a good one.

"You're doing fine, you know," she adds.

He tears his eyes from the grave. "What?"

"If this is you getting paranoid about being Director of SHIELD, _as usual_ ," she says, "you're doing just fine. We are still here, and we haven't screwed up too badly. And we are here in DC begging for money and hiring people so you're not that terrible at your job."

He looks at her, realizing what a cold day it is because her cheeks are a bit flushed, even though they have their winter coats on it is cold. 

"Thank you," he says.

They stand a moment in silence – Skye is fidgety, shoving her hands in her pockets and obviously bothered by the weather.

"Is your... is your grave here?" she asks.

That takes him by surprise. And it takes him by surprise that this is where her mind goes. He hadn't thought about it. He knows it's here, but he is not sure he should tell Skye.

"Why?"

She shrugs. "Is it here, then? Can I see it?"

"I don't know if that's wise."

"I'm curious."

"I don't know if that's wise either."

But even so he knows he is not going to say no to her.

 

**[x]**

"It doesn't even have your full name," she says.

"It's not real."

"And no quote?"

"Skye, it's just a fake. For show."

He is trying not to look at it too much. He's not a superstitious man, but he is standing in front of his own grave. His own humble, sad and inadequate grave. Skye is right, of course. And he hadn't thought about it before, because he believed it didn't matter. But it seems like it matters to her.

She becomes agitated.

"Who cares if it's fake? It should still be... _better_."

Skye's discomfort is beginning to bother him. He can't exactly say why. It's his grave but in a way he had never considered it really his, it's SHIELD's, it's part of the deception. It's not personal.

"It's just a gravestone, Skye."

"But it should have something. Show that somebody made an effort."

He doesn't know what to say to that and Skye just takes his hand. It's surprising and she squeezes it like she is trying to comfort him. He doesn't need comforting. Does he? This is not – this is not bothering him. It is just a gravestone and he is alive. He is alive. What if nobody made an effort, they knew. It was just a ruse. He shouldn't care. Skye's fingers entwinned with his shouldn't make him care about this.

Skye's hand is cold – it is a cold morning – but it's warmer than his own.

"Skye?" he asks, giving their hands a question look.

But he doesn't let go of her.

She looks away.

"I know you say it doesn't bother you but... the fact that it doesn't bother you is what bothers me. I know it's fake but you should feel something. These things are important. Not for the dead person because they are, well, dead –"

"Not in my case," Coulson points out.

"But _you were_ , actually. And it's important for the rest of... us. The people who get left behind. When I was a little girl sometimes I wished my parents were dead and I knew, it was a horrible thought but I wished it because that way I could go to cemetery and deal with that fact, visit them, have somewhere concrete instead of nothing. That's why it's important. Because people get to mourn you, and having a decent gravestone is for them, not just you."

"I didn't have family, I didn't have –"

"Anyone who cared about you? What about Audrey? What about your colleagues who weren't Level 7? I know it's just a fake, but SHIELD should have put more effort. Or at least _you_ should be pissed about it."

 

**[x]**

He's distracted all afternoon.

Thank god he has the script memorized, and that new SHIELD's results speak for themselves. Thank god Skye knows what to say. He's distracted, and the temptation of doubling their budget (apparently not everybody in Washington is as obtuse as they feared) doesn't seem to be enough to pierce that fog.

Skye seems sunny enough, or at least normal, like this morning never happened – or maybe she is just being professional (Coulson always suspected _he_ was the unprofessional one). By the end of hour three of meetings the sunniness starts to fade, or the act gets chipped away and she just looks tired.

He wonders if she is still upset.

He wants to tell Skye that these are the sacrifices he had to make to be an agent, and in the grand scheme of things _it's just a grave_ , it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything.

 

**[x]**

She knocks at the door connecting their rooms.

This time he doesn't have it locked. After last night he decided to leave it like this.

"I've been doing some research," she starts.

"About what?"

Skye studies him for a moment, standing there, in the threshold between her room and his. Coulson is sitting at the desk, no jacket and no tie, ready to change and go downstairs to grab some dinner at the hotel's restaurant.

She seems unsure whether to walk into the room or not, like she is intruding.

"So I want to buy something for you," she tells him.

"Buy something for me? What?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, shy. "A second gravestone."

"What are you talking about?"

"The one you have seriously sucks."

"Skye."

"I have some money, you know, I can buy you another gravestone and have them engrave something nice, maybe even your _full name_. I know it's a weird offer –"

"It's morbid," he tells her, trying not to smile.

" _I know that_. It is morbid. But you should have it."

Coulson stares blankly at her.

"I want a drink," he says. "Let's get out of here."

 

**[x]**

They find a small joint, some Cuban-inspired place with cheap cocktails and good snacks. It's somewhere a bit left field, not the classy, five star hotels Coulson normally takes people to. Dates. But this is not a date, so it's okay, it's just Skye.

"Okay, I'm impressed, this place is pretty cool."

They have to raise their voices a bit over the music.

She goes to get the drinks for them and he can tell Skye, in her jeans and purple blouse, makes an impression on the locals – young political aid types with really expensive haircuts looking for a quick distraction on a Friday night. Skye doesn't seem to register the attention. Coulson is sure she does – she always does, she knows how to tell a mark among the crowd, it's a necessary skill – and this is not modesty on her part. She doesn't seem to care. She looks straight at Coulson the whole time, the whole evening, and he sees her really relax for the first time since they arrived here, not just because she is away from the missions, but because she is enjoying herself. And maybe he feels himself relax, too.

And she is smiling at him.

"I'm sorry," she tells him at some point during the night, resting her hand over his forearm for a moment. Coulson imagined they had left the issue behind. She's still smiling slightly. "I know I shouldn't have freaked out like that in the graveyard. That was really – it was none of my business."

"Skye –"

"But I was just sad at the idea that you thought no one would mourn you. Because that was what you were thinking all the time. Right?"

He nods. "I know that's why you got angry. And I appreciate it, I do. That goes without saying."

"But the saying is nice," she comments, the corner of her mouth curling.

"Yes, it is."

"You know, you were right. People do have fun in this city."

Now she is smiling too much and _he_ is smiling too much, and they are drinking mojitos, which is really not his choice of poison, usually, and this is probably fifteen kinds of inappropriate, behaving like this with Skye, but Coulson finds himself not caring.

 

**[x]**

They come back to the hotel late, not drunk, but in good spirits.

While they wait for the elevator he turns to Skye, and yes it might be hour and it might be the relaxed mood of the bar, sitting close together and chatting above the music and how it was just warm between them but never just _nice_ and safe. It was different from anything else in his track record. That's not what he would normally do when he is in DC and that is not what he would usually do when he takes a beautiful woman out for a drink. Which is why he decides to tell her.

"Let's make a deal," he says. "You get to buy me the next gravestone."

She frowns. "The _next_ one?"

"When I die next time, you pay for it and you get to pick what it says, my epitaph. You can one-up Director Fury's if you feel like it."

Her eyes go wide and Coulson realizes he's said the wrong thing because now Skye just looks worried that he is going to just drop dead in front of her. He should have known.

"Are you kidding me? You're asking me to think about your actual real death? Now that's morbid. And cruel."

"I was trying to tell you that I want you around until then," he explains, mortified by having to clarify it.

"Oh."

It's not often one gets to wrong-foot Skye.

"I must be rusty," he tries to make it light, smirking, but he can already tell his suggestion has fallen flat. "I didn't think I was being that subtle."

They get inside the elevator in silence.

For a moment Coulson thinks she is not going to say anything else, just pretend this never happened. That is not like Skye, but maybe he has put her in a difficult situation – he is her boss after all, and she cares about him, maybe just not as much as he thought or not the way he thought. Maybe he was being unfair.

"I'm sorry," she says and he's not sure what she's apologizing for, just by her tone, "I'm the one who must be rusty because I have no idea how to do what comes next."

"What comes next?" he asks.

"The part where I ask you to come to my room."

 

**[x]**

The part where they kiss for a long time. 

In the elevator, messily, unsure, Skye can't seem to get the angle right but it's still spectacular, as far as he is concerned.

They kiss in the hallway, when Skye is trying to find her room key and Coulson presses his mouth to the curve of her neck for a while, and she takes longer than necessary to find it.

They kiss against the door of her room, once she manages to close it behind him. It's a lot more intense, this part, and Skye pins him against the wall and he grabs her hair carefully, throwing her head back. She sucks the tip of his tongue, kissing him more and deeper.

It goes on for a long time, improvised and clumsy and _perfect_.

A brief awkward conversation about contraceptive methods that ends them in some awkward kissing and then not-awkward kissing, just really good kissing and Coulson wonders when was the last time he kissed someone like this, like kissing was the main dish and he could just spend the whole night like this.

Then they fall on the bed and roll one over the other, wresting for it, kissing all the way, sloppily, open-mouthed and dirty until Skye is on top of him and opening his mouth slowly, two fingers cupping his chin and her tongue licking at the roof of his mouth.

They both shuffle on the bed undress each other more easily. He imagined he would be a little bit more self-conscious about his scar but as soon as Skye starts touching him, running her hands over his naked arms and his naked chest, letting a moan of appreciation as she closes her mouth over his nipple Coulson wants to laugh because of course that was never going to be a problem, for either of them. She seems to content to keep on kissing his body, thoroughly, maddeningly, but he has other plans. He rolls her on her back, slipping his hand between her legs and stroking her until she is wet and ready and moaning louder than he thought she would.

Then he is inside of her and it is amazing, embarrassing as that word is, and it's been a long time since he's thought something was amazing, at least like this, in a way that it is somehow scary, part of it is scary, part of it is so overwhelming he wants to pull away. But the best part is Skye wrapping her legs around his waist, Skye arching off the bed to kiss him, that part if not scary, that part is beautiful like her, like them, like something Coulson never thought he'd find.

 

**[x]**

"Despite not having dined in one of those fancy restaurants I thought you were going to take me to, this feels very much like a date, I have to say."

She makes a pretty picture, he has to admit, on his bed – no, wait, it's actually her bed, her room, he forgot. That's almost better. He remembers, yes, the part where this amazing woman he's crazy about invited him back to her room. And the Cuban joint wasn't a date but maybe _it was_ because it was with Skye, nothing was ever going to be simple.

This is not simple but he still likes the image; Skye resting her head on the pillow, the expensive bedsheets tangled around their legs like an accusation, the sweat still on her brow, her hair a mess.

"You want that, Skye?", he asks, stroking the side of her face. "Fancy restaurants? Dates? Tell me what you want, I just –"

"I want this," she says, running her fingers carefully along the line of his scar. "That is all."

She looks happy, and that should be all that matters.

"But right now..." she adds. "I'm actually still hungry so go to your minibar and get me some snacks."

He laughs. "Or I could call for room service, you know."

Skye looks away, embarrassed. The nice pink blush on her cheeks deepens.

"I had not thought about it at all," she admits. She twists her fingers into the lush fabric of the bedsheets. "This is so not my scene."

Something about that makes him sad. He runs his hand over her naked shoulders. Her skin is hot and he feels strangely privileged for being able to just touch her if he wants. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted to, or for how long. He had been quite foolish, he doesn't mind admitting that now.

"You need to be pampered more often," he tells her, ducking his head to catch her lips.

"Is that what you're gonna do? Pamper me?"

"If you want," he shrugs. At least a bit he intends to. He thinks Skye might find it fun and he would find it comforting, knowing he can give her something, after everything the world and SHIELD has taken from her. "But I don't expect I'll have much chances in the near future."

Skye groans, turning on her back. She stares at the ceiling, Coulson's hand tightly clasped in both of hers.

"I know," she says. "What are we going to do tomorrow when we get back to the team?"

"Maybe we shouldn't say anything for now," he offers. Skye turns her face towards him. She doesn't look like she wants to argue. "It's just too soon, we don't know the kind of danger we are putting ourselves and..."

She arches an eyebrow. His expression hasn't escaped her. " _And_?"

"This may be selfish but I want it to be just us for now," he tells her.

She places his hand over his heart again, smilling at him, so much emotion in her eyes. Coulson has to lower his gaze, take a look at her beautiful body, which is also overwhelming, but in a different way. Her eyes tell him too much too soon. He's is going to get there, but he doesn't want to mess it up. He has to find the words first.

A part of Skye seems to understand and the tension between them disappears when she chuckles and kisses his shoulder.

"I didn't really plan this," she tells him. "You have to believe me. I had no idea..."

"You didn't plan on seducing me?" he asks.

"No." She rolls her eyes. Her fingers dart from his chest to his hip. "But when we were in the cemetery and I saw your gravestone and I freaked out so much... I kind of knew. It was hard to ignore the truth."

"I don't regret things turned out the way they did."

"And you? Did you know we were going to...?"

Maybe he doesn't have to find the words. Maybe he just needs to look at Skye like this and let her know, let her see him. She is good at that, anyway.

"I knew I wanted to," he says. "Skye, you offered to buy me a second gravestone and give me a better epitaph. _Skye_."

She seems so pleased by the way he is saying her name. He doesn't want to ever stop. 

"You've got a girl who wants to buy you a gravestone and raid your minibar. You're a lucky guy."

"Yes, I am."

 

**[x]**

He is not sure how he manages to concentrate on the morning meeting the next day.

He's tired for one. He and Skye spent most of the night talking and _not talking_. Skye had ingested absurd quantities of room service food, they had laughed at bad tv infomercials and it had felt like the had been a couple for years, not mere hours.

He can't stop thinking about it, that's the other thing. There are still so many things he wants to tell Skye, so many things he wants to do with her, that he is suddenly gripped by the fear that he won't be able to. The danger in their lives. Her origins, his condition. The fact that it might be too late for him.

"I know that face," she says when they have some sort of recess. "I don't like that face."

He doesn't mind the work, but he minds when it feels like hitting his head against a wall. Specially when he has such a precise idea of what he would rather be doing instead. Work seemed easier when it was all he had.

"We could have stayed in the room all morning, instead of this," he sighs. Images of of lazy love-making in mid-morning sunlight assaulting him in all its inconvenience. He needs to be alone with her again, and soon.

Skye slips her fingers over the laps of his jacket, and even though it's a really tiny gesture and they are in public, it feels weirdly intimate.

"Hey," she says. "Don't spoil me too much too soon."

He touches the back of her hand. "I'm fine, it's just –"

"That you don't normally have much patience for the bureaucratic work and even less when your mind is elsewhere?"

One day he is going to ask exaclty how she does _that_.

"I know this is weird," she adds, letting go of his suit but brushing the tip of her fingers across his chest. "But we'll figure it out."

She doesn't need to add the _together_ or the _like always_. They are there in her voice.

 

**[x]**

They are waiting to check out and Skye is keeping an eye on their bags in reception. She looks a bit sad, flipping the pages of a magazine without interest.

Coulson finds it hard to believe they arrived here only three days ago.

He sits with her on the huge, beige couch.

"I know, I know. I'm fine," Skye says before he even has to ask. "I just wish we'd had a bit more time on our own."

Coulson doesn't know why he thinks about it right now, but something about Skye's face, about the closeness he feels to her in this moment, fuels his desire for her to know everything. Everything about it.

"How about one more day?" he asks.

Skye looks at him like she's too supicious to believe it. She's obviously the sane one here.

"Can we afford it?" she asks.

"Just a... delay."

"Here?"

Coulson shakes his head.

"How do you feel about a little detour to Boston?" he asks, watches her face carefully, trying to keep his in check because he doesn't want to let on how much this means to him, because he doesn't want her to feel pressured into it.

"Boston?"

He touches her wrist, gingerly, feeling the bone under his fingertips. He touches her wrist like this is the first time they touch and they hadn't spent the whole night yesterday exploring each other's bodies and each other's taste and each other's pleased noises.

"I though about what you said," he tells her, "about it being important, and wishing as a kid that you could at least visit your parents' graves. I can't stop thinking about that. And I thought that I haven't visited my mother's in a long, long time. Many years, I think."

"Your mother?" Skye asks in a tiny, touched voice.

He nods.

She puts her hand over his, over his fingers still touching the delicate outline of her wrist. He feels a bit how he felt in the cemetery, when she held his hand in the cold weather. No, he feels _exactly_ like then. He doesn't know what it means but part of it is that he feels cherised, absurd as the word may sound for a fifty year old.

"No," she says, "I don't mind a little detour."


End file.
